Yesterday's Gone: Season One Part 33

"Ding ding ding, we have us a winner!"

Boricio stiffened at the sound of glee in Dead Guard Walking's voice. Things were about to get r.e.t.a.r.d ugly for Adam if Boricio didn't do something.

"So here's what's gonna happen, just so there aren't any surprises." Robin sc.r.a.ped the concrete then landed with another thwap in Dead Guard Walking's palm. "This here's about to get loud. Not the brain bas.h.i.+ng, though I ain't never had the pleasure of actually making a pot of brain stew, if I'm being honest. I imagine it ain't that loud, least not as loud as the shrieks that are gonna be leaking from this f.u.c.ker over here in another few seconds."

The blindfold was off and Boricio was on his feet. Dead Guard Walking didn't have time to tighten his grip before Boricio grabbed the bat and threw it to the ground. Boricio grabbed Dead Guard Walking's shoulders with both hands and drove his knee into the guard's chest. Air fled his body and he doubled over just as Boricio's right elbow landed square in the small of his back.

Dead Guard Walking lay facedown on the floor. But that wouldn't do for Boricio. He wanted to see the f.u.c.ker's pupils dilate. So he kicked him in the ribs to roll him over. The guard tried to cover his face but Boricio kicked his hands away, then put every one of his 200 pounds behind the heel he smashed into the f.u.c.ker's face.

Dead Guard Walking was still trying to catch his breath from the knee to the gut, so he couldn't scream. It didn't help that he was choking on three teeth, not including the one he spit. Boricio casually walked to the baseball bat, picked it up, then swung it in wide, playful arcs.

"You all can take your blindfolds off now, and watch, as the game is about to begin. Hey batter, batter, swiiiing...Hey batter, batter, swiiiing..." Boricio looked around the room to see just what his little army was made of. Manny, Moe and Jack all wore morbid curiosity. Charlie was smiling. Adam was covering his eyes.

"I do wish we had more time together," Boricio cooed to the guard. "Unfortunately, we're going to end our rendezvous early, because I'm about to f.u.c.k you like you was paying for it."

Boricio raised the bat high above his head.

Dead Guard Walking cried out, "Wait!"

"What's that?" Boricio said, lowering the bat and leaning on it like he was the Monopoly Man slouching on his cane.

"Please," Dead Guard Walking said through tears, "Don't kill me."

Boricio laughed. "Wow, what happened to the high-octane bad a.s.s? Mr. 'I am the motherf.u.c.kin' law?' Did he have to go potty?"

The man whimpered something as Boricio picked up the bat and shoved the ball end into the back of the man's neck, hard.

"Just as I thought, all f.u.c.kin' talk, you Try Hard wanna-be. I could smell your counterfeit c.o.c.k in c.u.n.t's clothing, fake a.s.s macho s.h.i.+t the minute you walked in."

"Please, I'll do anything," the guy said. "I'll help you escape."

"Anything?" Boricio asked, ignoring the offer of escape. "Hmmm, how about sucking my d.i.c.k?"

Boricio smiled at the defeat in the man's eyes. It was like the opposite of a glimmer of hope in someone's eyes. Boricio often thought of it as a glimmer of nope.

"Open your mouth," Boricio said.

Dead Guard Walking stared.

"You deaf and dumb? I said open your f.u.c.king mouth!" Boricio raised the bat.

Dead Guard Walking opened his mouth.

"Now close your eyes and don't make me ask you twice."

Dead Guard Walking closed his eyes, b.i.t.c.h a.s.s tears running down his face. Boricio took the narrow end of the bat and shoved it in the man's mouth. Dead Guard Walking gagged, lurching back, trying not to vomit. He didn't try hard enough.

"What's that?" Boricio said digging the the bat deeper, forcing Dead Guard Walking to gag and swallow his own vomit.

Boricio laughed, squatting, pulling the bat just slightly out of the man's mouth, chunks of vomit on the handle.

"Say it," Boricio whispered into the man's ear.

"What?"

"Say you'll be my b.i.t.c.h."

Dead Guard Walking squirmed, and for a moment, seemed like he might try to fight. Boricio shoved the bat in deeper, causing the man to gag again, dry heaves this time.

"Say it, b.i.t.c.h," Boricio said.

"I'll be your b.i.t.c.h!" he cried.

Boricio smiled. This a.s.shole had been too easy to break. He'd love to have an hour alone with him, to really show him what Boricio was capable of when properly motivated and inspired. So rare that his victims actually earned what was coming to them, so moments like these were special, and Boricio hated wasting them.

He pulled the bat from Dead Guard Walking's mouth. The man collapsed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, too ashamed to look up.

"Yoo hoo," Boricio whispered to get the man's attention as he raised the bat high above his head. The guard looked up as Boricio brought the bat down fast and hard. A dull thwap echoed through the tiny room. Not quite brain stew, but Dead Guard Walking had finally earned his name. Well, except for the walking part.

Boricio dropped the bat and turned to take a bow. The room was still, except for the sound of the bat rolling across the floor, but the men were on their feet, ready.

"What's next, boss?" Moe said.

No hesitation. Boricio walked up to Moe, threw a flat palm beneath his chin, then kicked his feet from under him. His arms were around Moe's neck in a second. Boricio twisted his head and snapped his spinal cord. Moe's body dropped to the floor like an empty sack.

"He was a traitor, and we can't be running with none like that," Boricio said. "I ended him for all of us."

He looked through the room; sure as s.h.i.+t they all agreed.

"So we have to wait, but we have the advantage. Them f.u.c.kers out there don't know what happened in here, and whoever walks through that door is gonna have to face all five players of Team f.u.c.king Boricio."

Boricio gestured around the empty room. "As you can see, not counting Robin there, we don't have any weapons other than these," he held up his fists, "so that means we're gonna have to make a decision, and we should do that before that door b.i.t.c.hes open again. We can get the f.u.c.k out of here, or we can fight this s.h.i.+t out, stick around and get some G.o.dd.a.m.ned answers. Seems like these c.u.mdingers might know a thing or two. So who's for fighting and who's for staying?"

Charlie said, "I want to fight."

"Me too." Adam was nodding his head.

Everyone else was silent.

Just as he figured, the two kids wanted to brawl while the old f.u.c.kers wanted to tuck it between their legs and b.i.t.c.h their way out of the blue.

Fine by me. Three's company, anyway.

They spent six minutes standing: Boricio in front, bat in hand, Manny and Jack in the middle, Charlie and Adam in back.

The door whined open and Boricio smiled.

MARY OLSON.

October 16 Evening Belle Springs, Missouri Mary did nothing but helplessly stare as her daughter vacillated between writhing uncomfortably on the couch beneath thick layers of guttural moaning, and falling into long silences where she lay so still Mary had to check her breathing. It had been nearly 12 hours, maybe more since they'd found Paola. Mary had stopped paying attention to time as it seemed to slow to a crawl as her daughter lay on the verge of death.

Moaning occasionally turned to murmurs, but never clear enough to inform Mary of what Paola was trying to say or what she might be dreaming. The murmurs were just enough to give Mary an icy chill - her daughter was in danger and she was powerless to do anything about it.

Her dreams must have been vivid the way Paola was thras.h.i.+ng about. Her eyes had darted open, not once but twice, as if to protest the atrocities happening behind drawn lids.

Mary felt helpless, unable to do anything to help her. She couldn't latch on to her daughter's thoughts as she had been able to do increasingly over the years. Specific thoughts would be nice, the kind she occasionally overheard and would have done anything to hold on to now, but Mary would have gladly settled for the psychological equivalent of a pulse.

She'd read about amputees who could feel a tingling where their limbs once were. Doctors called it phantom limb syndrome. Made perfect sense to her. Why shouldn't you feel the ghost of something that had been a part of you forever? Mary should be able to feel Paola, but her daughter wasn't even a phantom.

That was bad.

Worse was outside.

When she and Desmond returned to the hotel with Paola, another of the creatures had been milling about the parking lot. Desmond opened fire, but missed the shot, shattering the gla.s.s lobby doors behind it. His second shot tore through the creature's torso. A large chunk of its mid-section fell in wet chunks to the ground before the rest of the creature followed.

At least the creatures were easy to kill. Or so they thought.

They went into the hotel, got Paola bundled in a bed, then barricaded the front door, leaving a s.p.a.ce large enough to look out of, and shoot out of. Six hours pa.s.sed until they saw another creature. After that, they started multiplying, more and more showing up every hour. Maybe a couple dozen were there when they went to sleep. At least twice that by morning. The number gained weight all day.

Mary stayed by Paola's side while Jimmy, John and Desmond took turns with two-man guard duty. The creatures were congregating at the far edges of the parking lot, as though an invisible retaining wall were holding them at bay. The wall seemed to work just fine until early twilight when a trio of the beasts were suddenly standing just outside the lobby doors.

John was first to notice, and act, running outside and emptying his gun into the creatures. Jimmy and Desmond joined the volley, and the three of them managed to hold off the threat. And while n.o.body mentioned it, they all must have realized it had taken more bullets than before to bring down the creatures. Especially since the creatures seemed to be multiplying in numbers as the hours ticked by.

If Paola was better, it'd be different. At least then they'd have a chance to run. The creatures didn't seem terribly fast.

Yet as long as Paola was in this state, they couldn't leave. Though Mary couldn't hear or even feel any of her daughter's thoughts, she felt like Paola was ... waiting for something. Perhaps it was Mary's imagination, wishful thinking, or just trying to hold onto anything and afraid to do anything wrong, but the sensation was strong. Paola was waiting... for something.

Desmond was suddenly behind her. "How you doing?"

She looked up, happy he was checking on her again.

Her smile was weak, but stronger than she felt. "Worried about Paola. What did you find out?"

"There's a bunch of bleakers..."

"Bleakers?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, that's what Jimmy's callin' them, and the name kinda stuck. Anyway, there's a bunch still huddled around the Suburban and the cargo van, maybe 10 total. I've been watching them. Odd as it sounds, I think they're getting stronger, faster, maybe even smarter. I'm thinking we take them out, back the cargo van into the hotel, to h.e.l.l with the front doors and the body of the van, throw a mattress in back for Paola, then hit the road in a hurry. We leave first thing in the morning."

"Okay," Mary wasn't thrilled but didn't want to explain that she wanted to wait, because she felt silly. Besides, Desmond seemed so full of hope as he laid out his plan.

"Desmond?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you think happened?"

He sighed, then sat next to Mary on the couch. "You're starting to make me feel bad every time you ask me. I wish I had a different answer, but I just don't."

"That scares me more than anything. You have a cargo van and guns, but you're not the survivalist type. You're the sharpest guy I know, and I'm sure you at least have a theory. Why are you so scared to tell me what it is?"

"I'm not scared; I just don't want to speculate. Information is everything. When you give the wrong information, even once, people trust you less."

"Sorry, Desmond, but your business is dead. If you have a theory, I want to hear. Come on, don't be stingy. Maybe whatever you say will be good enough to make me feel fine throwing my comatose child in the back of a cargo van while 'bleakers' wait outside to kill us."

"Well how can I argue with that." Desmond stood. "Mind if I pour us an evening gla.s.s? I promise I'll drink just enough for good theory, but not enough to dull my rather awesome bleaker-killing abilities."

It felt good to laugh, so Mary was glad when she didn't hold it in.

"Yes, please. Make it two."

Desmond was back a moment later with two full gla.s.ses of Pinot noir.

"Here ya' go."

He made her wait behind a long sip, then said, "Okay, now remember, I have no idea here, so I don't even count this as theory since that implies a hypothesis which would require an educated guess at least. This is me talking entirely out of my a.s.s. Unmitigated bulls.h.i.+t. I love theory; I just don't like talking about it. At least not before I can link theory to facts. Before then, it's just popcorn. Yummy, but no nutritional value."

"Not everything has to have nutritional value," Mary said. "Sometimes popcorn is great just because that's the best way to watch Amelie."

"True," Desmond smiled, raised his gla.s.s, took another long sip of wine, then continued. "What if this is the planet's way of starting over? Maybe Mother Nature is sending us back to dusty roads and wooden wheels, and it's all for a reason."

Mary took a sip of wine and looked curiously at Desmond.

"The technological achievements of the last decade are staggering. We may not have jet packs and moving sidewalks like The Jetson's promised, but we have video conferencing and a ton of stuff Hanna Barbara couldn't imagine. Yet, the more people get, the more they want. And the less happy they are with what they already have."

Desmond paused, took another sip, then set his gla.s.s on the end table beside him. "Do you know about Moore's Law?"

"Is that the one about technology doubling every five years, or something like that?"

"Sort of. I'm gonna get geeky, okay? Moore's Law states that the number of transistors you can place on an integrated circuit doubles every two years or so, each time at a reduced cost. And so far this has held true, for more than 50 years. This means the power of everything is exponentially climbing: processing speed, memory capacity, the number of pixels in your Canon."

Interest colored Mary's face. Desmond's story gathered speed. "So the big question has always been, what happens after Moore's Law hits a wall. Best guess experts place that possibility around 2020, or soon after when suddenly we hit a technological singularity."

Mary's face must've given away how crazy she thought Desmond was being. He laughed, sending a stream of Pinot into the air. "I'm sorry," he said, still laughing. "I realize I'm being ridiculous and confusing. The whole idea of this conversation is just... ludicrous... I mean, I think about this stuff in my head all the time, but never out loud to my neighbors and never because it might have value outside my own brain. Not to mention I'm probably not making a whole lot of sense."

Mary took her second sip of wine. "I'm completely following," she said with a smile, "and loving every word. Go on."

"Okay. Thanks." A final laugh, then, "You've seen the Terminators, Matrix, iRobot, Battlestar Galactica; all the end-of-the-world, robots-win-and-we-all-lose type movies, right?"